


of roses and thorns

by fluffy_teddybear



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anniversary, Flowers, Fluff, How Do I Tag, I suppose, Language of Flowers, Light Angst, Other, Short One Shot, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffy_teddybear/pseuds/fluffy_teddybear
Summary: When Crowley decides to grow a blue rose as an anniversary gift for Aziraphale, he learns that, perhaps, not every plant is as cooperative as he thought.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2019





	of roses and thorns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lilyaceae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilyaceae/gifts).



A bead of sweat rolled down Crowley’s wrinkled forehead as he focused on the little rascal in front of him. 

He’d been trying everything -and anything- to make this one rose flawless. Tragically, the only blue one he’d been able to find just had to be the most stubborn plant he’d ever worked with. He’d gone and bought the most exquisite soil and fertiliser he could find. He’d threatened it less harshly than any of his other plants, and even Freddie Mercury’s sweetest tunes weren’t able to touch the rose’s soft spot. Soft caresses, threatening whips, a begging demon, nothing was able to encourage the blue shit to start blooming. Hell, Crowley might’ve started praying at this point.

Currently, the rose sat on a windowsill in front of the demon as he kneeled on the floor. He had an anguished look on his face, his eyebrows pinched together and his lips pursed in concentration. 

Crowley clenched his eyes shut, vivid images passing behind his eyelids as he thought of his wildest dreams, using his imagination to the fullest. He dreamt of the rose growing the most luscious petals, with the scent of the sweetest honey. It grew magnificently, ever larger and prettier. It called out to Crowley, reaching its leaves toward him in pure devotion. 

Alas, when he opened one eye to check on the hellish plant of doom, no such thing had become reality. Not even a single hint of any blooming petals. Then and there might’ve been the first time Crowley had ever declared a plant ‘utterly hopeless and impossible’.

He felt defeated. This rose would have been the perfect gift for their first anniversary. It was one of his top choices, beside a first - and signed - edition of Jane Austen’s ‘Pride and Prejudice’. He would’ve picked the book, to be honest, if it weren’t for Aziraphale proudly showing him his latest addition to his ever-larger collection of rare books; and whoop-dee-doo, take a guess which one it was.

He’d been harassing the flower for over a week now, but another of his main concerns had popped up as well in that short amount of time. Aziraphale had noticed something was up. He’d already questioned Crowley on his well being after a strange, and rather short, meeting at the local flower shop while said angel was looking to replace his late orchid. 

The demon had been in the middle of a conversation with the shopkeeper, asking for advice on the damned rose. The minute Aziraphale had walked in, Crowley had hurriedly told the lady ‘oh, nevermind’, waved hello to the angel and shoved himself out the door. He could’ve hit himself, he’d thought afterwards. He’d made a resolution never to be so stupid again.

Crowley got up from the floor and paced around the room. He stuck his hand in his hair, trying to think of anything, absolutely anything that could get him out of this mess. Eventually, he stepped into the corner he called kitchen and grabbed an empty bag sitting on the counter top. He filled it up with the rice he had lying around. 

Who was he kidding though? It’s not as if he ate anything without Aziraphale around. He kept the rice around solely for the purpose of throwing it at ducks in ponds. If he couldn’t come up with any ideas in his apartment, perhaps the rowdy pond in St. James park would do it for him. 

He set off, neatly closing the front door behind him instead of slamming it, to usually irritate his next-door neighbour. This time he found, however peculiar, he wasn’t in the mood to.

  
  
  


As much as Aziraphale would’ve liked to stay seated on this bench and watch the bumbling of ducks for the rest of eternity, he knew he’d have to confront Crowley eventually. He would have already, had it not been for Crowley’s remarkable talent at avoiding angels. He’d been witnessing the demon’s mental deterioration for a week and a half, and had decided to step in. Seeing how Crowley avoided his concern and inquiries made him want to bop him on the head with a guide to self-care. 

He planned to visit his apartment as a surprise, to try to catch him off-guard and, who knows, even have a proper conversation for once. And so he got up from the bench he was sat upon, leaving behind a great view of ducks swimming in ponds. 

Little did he know of the demon arriving behind him, just minutes apart.

He didn’t bother to knock on the door. Crowley had given him a spare key, after all. A token of his cherishing and affection. The demon had gifted it to him after their celebration of the Notpocalypse. He’d seemed quite nervous about the whole thing, gracelessly chucking the key at him after a series of rushed attempts at explaining. Aziraphale had said nothing on the matter, instead choosing to show his endearment with a soft but appreciative hug. Either way, he stepped through the doorway, wiping imaginary dust off his coat and called out to the demon, once, twice. 

He received no response. 

Shrugging, he imagined Crowley coiled up beneath a heat lamp, or perhaps on the window sill under the sun. Though, the further he walked into his apartment, the more he realised said demon was not present. He figured he might’ve stepped out for a minute, probably to safely tuck away a plant he’d made an example of after he threatened to shove it down one shredder or another.

Aziraphale decided to simply leave behind a message of sorts, a ‘we need to talk’. He miracled a piece of paper with said message written down in neat handwriting from his pocket. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to resolve to confronting Crowley with such a simple message. After a discussion-turned-argument, the demon had tried to hide away in his apartment, barely even coming out to take care of his plants. He’d been lucky to catch him for a second while he was in the middle of dragging a bag of fresh soil to his apartment. He’d only finished the word ‘talk’ before Crowley had taken off once more, leaving behind a frustrated Aziraphale. 

Luckily, that had ended with a short but sincere apology from the demon after a day of contemplation. Aziraphale had forgiven and forgotten, and that night had been spent in front of the fireplace, two figures snuggled up right on the carpet under a heap of blankets.

This time, however, Aziraphale didn’t even have a single clue as to what was bothering Crowley. 

As he approached the table in the center of the living room where he was sure the demon would notice the note, he saw a sparkle of green in the corner of his eye. He didn’t realise Crowley had acquired a new addition to his, er, plant family. 

When he approached the flower, he found the plant had no petals, and seemed in a stubborn mood, however strange it might be. He bent down toward it, stretching out his hand to softly caress it’s leaves. 

‘Hello there, love’, he muttered, and softly spoke praises to its beauty, and oh how gorgeous it was. 

The flower did not react.

Aziraphale spent a few minutes there, complimenting the flower on its every spike, until he realised he had business to attend to. Books wouldn’t count themselves after all, but Aziraphale never quite failed to ignore the fact that none of them had been sold or loaned out, ever. He quickly left the apartment, making sure to softly close the door behind him as to not agitate Crowley’s next-door neighbours. 

As soon as the lock clicked in place, a bud made itself known on one of the rose’s stalks.

  
  
  


An hour must’ve passed since Crowley plopped onto the very bench an angel had occupied just a hot minute ago. He’d started to chuck the rice at ducks. Far too many, he thought after twenty minutes, far too many ducks. Perhaps he’d just gone cross-eyed, or maybe someone had snuck some alcohol in the air purifier in his car. Who knows, really, as long as he kept chucking bread. He realised it must’ve been the bottle of cognac he’d taken a little sip of before getting out of his car. Just a little one, pinky promise. 

He’d started out with small pieces at first, but over time those pieces grew larger and larger the more he worked out his frustration on the ducks. A couple of them might’ve gone under a few times, but he didn’t really remember.

Eventually his rice was gone, or he’d grown tired of the desperate ducks, he didn’t know, but he got up from his spot. He decided in a haze to get in his car and pay the angel a visit, no matter the way it turned out. So off he went, bumbling in what one with some pity might call a straight line, until he reached his car.

Surprisingly undamaged, he arrived at Aziraphale’s bookshop. The angel had only just come home himself, as he was still preparing tea the moment Crowley entered. 

The demon came up to him, looking just as tired as he’d been the entire week. Wordlessly, Aziraphale turned to him, taking a hold of his wrist to rub comforting circles on the back of his hand. 

The evening passed slowly, but comfortably. Aziraphale refrained from questions, knowing now not to be the right moment. They ate dinner, or rather Aziraphale did, and drank tea, ditto, until they eventually found themselves on the sofa. Aziraphale was on his back, a practically asleep demon on his stomach. Crowley had always told him he made for a great pillow to sleep on, he thought back fondly as he traced figures on his shoulder. It didn’t take long before Aziraphale dropped his head back and dozed off just as peacefully as one demon before him had.

Only a handful of hours later, that exact demon shot awake from a dream. He’d tell you what it was about, if only he could remember. After blinking away the last bits of sleep, his mind let him come to the conclusion that the anniversary he’d been so terribly dreading had finally made its appearance on stage. Today. Without a proper gift to show.

After carefully laying Aziraphale’s arm that had been resting on him aside, he flew from the couch to grab the coat he’d haphazardly thrown onto a chair. He hastily put it on whilst stepping out the door, looking to find the Bentley parked right where he left it the other day. It was still in the early hours of the morning, but he knew that before long the entirety of London would have woken up, including Aziraphale.

He drove to his apartment at an unholy speed. He resolved that, even if the flower had no petals to show for, he might as well gift him the plant in hopes of it blooming whilst residing at the angel’s place. The moment he stepped through his own doorway, however, he realised that no such hopes would be necessary.

He came to stand still in front of the flower in question, now with petals as bright blue as a bridesmaid dress. It put the little adorable lilac he’d gotten from Aziraphale that was now standing in his bedroom to shame.

Crowley, however, had no time to ponder and question how in the ever-loving fuck that had happened, instead choosing to grab the flower in its pot and book it out of his apartment into his car. Just as quickly as he had left, he arrived back at the bookshop, flower in hand. He pushed open the door and saw Aziraphale had already gotten up and ready for the day. He looked pleasantly surprised at Crowley’s sudden entrance and welcomed him with open arms. The demon approached him nervously, the plant held in front of him.

‘Oh, Crowley,’ he softly muttered, appreciatively glancing at the flower he recognised from his apartment, ‘you shouldn’t have.’ 

He took the pot in his hands, giving the demon a loving expression, and took a small piece of wrapped paper out of his pocket himself, a small bow attached to it, before offering it to Crowley. He’d given him an intertwined branch ring with a small fiery gem in the middle. 

That would become Crowley’s most prized possession of all, and he was not alone in that. After all, Aziraphale knew not a single other soul would ever own such a proud and outstanding rose as him


End file.
